It Doesn't Always Happen in the Rain
by Boy On Strings
Summary: Jackson is being physically abused at home. Danny finds out. He and his family do what they can to help. Gen Fic, not slash.
1. In Broad Daylight

**Author's Note:**

**Written for the prompt - _When the sheriff tells Jackson how it's the ones that least deserve the abuse that are abused in episode 2. I'd like to something where it is Jackson who's the one being abused by his adopted father. With Danny living opposite from him instead of Isaac (and knowing about his situation), that's the whole reason why Jackson has this inferiority complex. Anything less than perfection and his dad takes it out on him. One night after a particularly bad beating Jackson goes over to Dannys so that he can take care of him. I'd like to see Danny lose his cool especially if Jackson is abused sexually for the first time. I know I'm totally evil._**

**It's not going to be a perfect match to this prompt, but I'm going to see what I can do with this. The first part is how Danny finds out about the situation in the first place, the actual specifics of Jackson going to Danny for help will be in a subsequent chapter.**

**Disclaimers: Don't own Teen Wolf, Don't make any money from this.**  
**Warnings: Child Abuse**

* * *

It should have been raining. When you finally hit the bottom, when there was nowhere else to go, it was supposed to be raining. You couldn't tell if the actors in movies were good at crying when they were soaking wet, and you had to be drenched for someone to towel you dry as they put you back together again. You weren't supposed to be able to fall apart in broad daylight, with sunlight on your face and a pleasant breeze cutting the heat. What a joke, Jackson couldn't even self destruct the way he was supposed to. Maybe they'd put that on his grave. Here lies Jackson Whittemore, even death he couldn't get right.

He took another long drink from the bottle of bourbon he'd taken from his father's liquor cabinet. It burned going down, but it wasn't nearly as bitter as the disappointment in his father's eyes when he'd learned that Jackson was now just the Co-Captain of the lacrosse team. It didn't sting as much as the bones in his wrist snapping when his father slammed him into the wall. His father had asked him what was next, wanted to know if he planned on dropping out of his AP courses and quitting lacrosse altogether. He hadn't answered quickly enough, or maybe he hadn't said 'sir' enough times. Did it matter why? There was always a reason, always something he hadn't done well enough.

He rolled over onto his back, hard to do with a cast on one arm and a bottle of alcohol in the other. There was something funny about a rich kid slowly drinking himself to death while sunbathing next to his family's pool. He wasn't really going to die, but he wondered how much of a statistic that would make him. The kids at school would hold a vigil, probably wouldn't even mention how much of an ass he was. They'd whisper to each other, hold each other, and try to make sense of the tragedy. What a crock of shit.

The second floor window to his mother's studio had the curtains drawn. All she would have to do was look out to see him there. That wouldn't happen though, she probably thought he was at school, maybe didn't even know what day it was. She wouldn't come looking for him until she realized her pills were gone. Little promises of a better life, a happiness she couldn't find on her own, all in an orange plastic container. It was a wonder people hadn't just flat commercialized it, but he doubted the doctors wanted to get cut out of the profits. He glanced over at the prescription bottle, wondered if it could take the pain away. Mix drugs and alcohol Jackson, prove to everyone you're as worthless as they think. Fuck them; he'd live just to spite them. He'd figure it out eventually, how to do everything so well that no one could tell him he wasn't good enough.

He couldn't wait till he graduated. Then he'd leave and he'd never come back to this prison that looked so wonderful from the outside. He wouldn't have to look into his mother's eyes, wouldn't have to hear her tell him that he could do better. He remembered when he was ten years old he'd given her a charcoal drawing of a flower. She asked him if he thought it was good enough. How was a ten year old supposed to respond to that? They didn't cover that in school. She hadn't given him the chance anyway, told him to put it away because his grandmother had just gotten to the house. The punch line of the joke? It was Mother's Day. He stuck to Hallmark cards without a signature after that. She probably hated the way he wrote his name, probably hated that 'Whittemore' was at the end of it.

School taught you that it was never your fault, that there were things you couldn't control. They told you to find someone that you could trust. Who could you trust if the people who were responsible for keeping you alive didn't give a shit? It's not like being beaten really mattered. Physical pain was a joke. It was the things people said, the look in their eyes when you failed, you couldn't walk that off. You couldn't rub some dirt on it and power through. You ate it, swallowed it down, and tried not to choke on the bitterness of it.

He tried to take another drink, but all the bourbon was gone. He hurled the bottle at the diving board. He missed even though it wasn't that far away. Guess it was a good thing he hadn't bothered to try out for basketball. That was really his secret. Not that he hated his life, not that his father beat him, and his mother was on too many anti-depressants to care. That shit was probably expected of upper class families with a worthless adopted kid. The secret was that the only reason he seemed like he was amazing was because he never did anything he wasn't naturally good at. Why try and fail? That wasn't good business. Stick to what you're good at, get better at that, be the best you can be, try, and when you think you've tried as hard as you can you have to just keep going, because personal disappointment wasn't the only penalty for failure if you were a Whittemore.

He staggered to his feet; Danny was supposed to be on his way over. Danny was just about the only thing that made Jackson's life bearable. He figured he should grab some more beers from the fridge inside, but he accidentally knocked over the table with his useless broken wrist. The pills rolled across the deck and dropped into the pool. Jackson cast a nervous glance back at the house. It was one thing to take them for a little while; they might pass that off as his mother's mistake. It wasn't likely, but if he lost them completely there really wouldn't be any excuses. He didn't want to try to live the next few weeks with two broken extremities.

Jackson stumbled towards the edge of the pool. His ribs ached, his sides and back were covered in ugly purple and yellow swellings. He'd need to get a shirt before Danny got there too. His father hadn't bothered holding back after the wrist had broken. Not like he'd be getting changed in front of anyone in practice. Somehow that had been Jackson's fault too. His father hadn't even seemed angry, he never did, and maybe that would have made it all easier, if his father was prone to fits of rage. No, his father was calculating, knew what he was doing, and thought it was for the best. Not like Jackson could argue with him. He should have tried harder, not let some asthmatic asshat on steroids take away his position on the team. If he'd been better, practiced more, put in more effort then nothing would have happened.

The deck was burning hot; the mid-summer day had heated it enough that it was a little painful to walk on. Jackson didn't really care; he was too wasted, too used to far worse things to care about a little heat. He stepped over an empty beer bottle, then another as he made his way around the edge of the pool. He'd been drinking pretty hard since he woke up, was several beers in and started on the bourbon when the sun came up. Too bad drinking wasn't a skill his father could be proud of. That might have been the only metric Jackson could have measured up to.

He was only a few feet from the edge when his phone rang. He could tell by the tone that it was Danny. He looked back towards the overturned table; the little electronic device was half covered by it. He took another step forward, figured Danny was just calling to say he was about to walk over. His foot came down on an empty bottle with too much force. It shattered, shards of glass embedding in his skin. He cursed, lost his balance and pitched forward. Pain spiked through his head. The rational part of his brain, the tiny piece that wasn't drowning in booze realized he'd slammed into the diving board, that he was sinking.

He probably should have been afraid, probably should have tried to do something, but his body felt heavy, and the cold water felt good after he'd been letting himself bake in the sun all morning. He kept his eyes closed, tried to ignore the fire in his head. Down in the water it was peaceful. Everything made sense. Danny was on his way, he'd just chill in the pool till he got there, probably should have just gotten in earlier…


	2. Between the Lines

It was twisted, in ways the hospital staff would never understand. His mother was just sitting there in the corner. Could the doctors even see it? She sat there flipping through a magazine with no apparent interest in what happened. She hadn't even touched him. She wasn't holding his hand. It was like he was something poisonous. She was as far away from him as she could be while still being in the room. Did she think whatever was wrong with him was contagious?

Danny had found him drowning, saved him, gave him CPR, and called an ambulance. Danny was right next to him. Brown eyes full of more emotion than he'd ever seen in any other human being, certainly more than he'd ever seen from his parents.

"Can I get you something?" Danny reached out, but let his hand fall back to the bed without touching him. It was different though than his mother's refusal. It was more like Danny was afraid Jackson was still so fragile that he might break if too much pressure was applied.

"Stay here," his mother said. "I'll get you boys some water." It was the first thing out of her mouth in the two hours they'd been there. Not even ten words. She didn't ask if they wanted anything. She simply told them.

"You don't have to do that, Mrs. Whittemore. You can stay here with Jackson. I'll get it." Danny moved to stand, but Jackson's mom was already opening the door.

"That won't be necessary, Daniel. Stay." Jackson had no idea how she completely missed that no one ever called him Daniel. He'd been friends with Danny for years and no one had ever called him that but her. Somehow when she said 'stay' she made it sound like she was talking to an unruly puppy, something that didn't know what was best for itself.

"That's very kind of you," Danny said. The worst part about Danny's politeness was that it was sincere, like he didn't realize she was talking down to him. He didn't even seem fazed that she was gone and the door was closed between them before he was even finished speaking.

Danny turned to look back at him. He narrowed his eyes, probably thinking about whether he should go straight to the judgmental part of the conversation, or lead with something reassuring.

"Thanks," Jackson said before Danny could start. "Thanks for saving my life." He smiled, put all his charisma behind it. It was like getting dressed at the beginning of the day. Carefully select the emotions you want to display, put those on, and keep everything else hidden. Jackson had learned early in life to always play with your cards held against your chest.

"Technically me giving you CPR was like our first kiss," Danny said, a small smile on his lips. "You tasted like alcohol, and chlorine."

"You got the authentic experience then. Was it everything you'd hoped?" Jackson's fake smile slipped into something real. Danny always seemed to drag genuine emotion out of him. Somehow knew where it was when Jackson couldn't find it in his own soul.

"I dunno," Danny looked over towards the door as if expecting someone to walk in at any moment. "Somehow I thought you'd be livelier than a dead fish."

It was easy like this. Danny could have asked him how he'd ended up in the pool. Could have wanted to know why he was covered in bruises, and piss drunk before noon, but instead he wanted to make jokes.

"You're better than me." Jackson leaned back and closed his eyes, shielded his face with the cast on his wrist. "You're so much better. I've never been any good. Danny, I'm sorry." Just saying the words out loud was like taking a weight off his chest. He needed Danny to hear them, needed him to know.

"What are you talking about, Jackson?" Danny tried to remove the barrier between them, but didn't pull too hard. Jackson let him, but kept his eyes closed. "Why did you do it?"

It had been an accident. He'd never meant to fall into the pool, but he hadn't tried very hard to save himself either. He couldn't say that though, those weren't the right words. Jackson wasn't sure what the right words were, so he just kept quiet.

The chair scraped across the floor as Danny scooted closer to the bed. "Whatever it is, Jackson, whatever's happening to you I can help."

"What are you talking about?" Jackson knew, but he just couldn't bring himself to say the words.

"You're covered in bruises. I know you told me you broke your wrist while drinking at a party. Is that really what's going on?"

"Lydia and I decided to work out some of our differences with a game of naked paintball. She won. You have no idea how good of a shot she is." The joke fell flat and Jackson refused to open his eyes. He didn't want to see Danny's reaction, didn't want to know what the pain of being shut out looked like on him. Jackson had to look at that every day in the mirror.

The door to the room opened before Danny could respond. Jackson opened his eyes to see his father and the doctor entering the room. The chair next to the bed scraped against the floor as Danny moved back and stood up.

"Thanks for all your help," Jackson's father said. He shook hands with the doctor. "When will he be ready to leave?"

"He should be ready; we just hope we won't see him again so soon." The doctor's gaze lingered on Jackson for a few moments before turning back to his father.

"Kids these days, right? I'm going to have to be more careful with the liquor cabinet from now on." Jackson wondered if the doctor could hear the promise behind the words. "Jackson, did your mother tell you where I was this morning while you were drinking by the pool with your friend?"

Jackson shook his head. "No, sir." He didn't have the courage to correct his father.

Danny shuffled away to the side of the room. Mr. Whittemore took Danny's place at the side of the bed, laid one of his hands on the cast over Jackson's wrist. "Your mother and I felt so bad that you wouldn't be able to drive to school, the Porsche being a manual transmission and all, so I decided to go out and pick up an automatic for you. A new truck, probably easier to carry your sports gear in." He fished out a set of keys and dropped them onto the table over Jackson's lap.

"That's very generous of you, sir." Jackson's voice didn't shake. He didn't flinch when the hand came down on his wrist. He knew better than that. His father smiled down at him. It might have been meant to look like pride to the other people in the room. Jackson wondered what gift he'd get the next time his father beat him. That's how it always was. He'd gotten Porsche after being pushed down the stairs and breaking an ankle. "I'll take good care of it, and no more drinking, sir." They both knew that it was a lie, and neither of them cared.

"Well, I think that's it." The doctor made a few notes with his laptop then left. Danny followed him out after making Jackson promise to call him later that night.

Jackson's father sat down in the corner, the same seat that his mother had sat in. He didn't say anything. Jackson didn't say anything. They just watched each other and waited for his mother to return. When she got back the first words out of her mouth were a commentary on how she'd wasted her time fetching water for her alcoholic son, and his gay friend that didn't even bother to stick around long enough to say thank you. Jackson would have laughed at the callousness of it, but all he could think about was that they'd soon be on their way home, and that he'd find out what his father really thought about what happened.


End file.
